


Tears on My Pillow and Ave Maria

by jdjunkie



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdjunkie/pseuds/jdjunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York, opera and two men in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tears on My Pillow and Ave Maria

**Author's Note:**

> One of my earliest stories and it shows, I think. Posted here with only the mildest of revisions.

I've always thought of Jack as a guy who fits in wherever he happens to be. He's adaptable, confident, secure in his own skin. The man looks as though he _belongs_. When it was time for a Pentagon reception? Looked great in Class As. Off-world, up to our butts in intergalactic guano, lo those years ago? To die for in BDUs.

However, as of five minutes ago, I'm doing a little re-thinking on the comfortable anywhere thing.

We've been on the subway for, oh, four minutes, forty-two seconds and Jack looks like he'd rather be anywhere other than where he is right now. Baal's fortress and Hadante excepted. He's hating every second. And right now, he's probably hating me, too.

"We should take a cab," he'd said, digging his heels in like a recalcitrant four-year-old in the hotel lobby.

"Come on Jack, where's your sense of adventure? It's all part of the New York experience. It's a great city. We should explore _all_ its facets," I'd said, hauling him towards the subway station.

"Subways are for cattle. Besides, this is a one-off. We'll probably never do this again and we should arrive in style." He was wheedling. He had that look on his face. The same one he'd used five years ago on the Odyssey when he'd tried to get me to spill my Prior-induced master plan. "Trusting you," he'd said ... wheedlingly. It annoyed the hell out me then. Tonight, it was mildly irritating.

Nothing was going to spoil tonight.

"Jack, it's raining. Hard. Our chances of hailing a cab are next to zero. We're slumming it. Now move or we'll miss the beginning, or whatever it is you call it."

I heard a mumbled "Overture," as I bravely led the way, the former Special Forces operative trailing in my wake.

I know it's an overture, and he _knows_ I know it's an overture, and it's all a game that speaks of togetherness and familiarity and comfort, and, yeah, but don't we just love it?

He gave in, and not at all gracefully, I might add. So, here we are, wearing the suits we were married in three years ago, pressed together like damp sardines in a can, hurtling beneath the streets of New York.

Any other time I'd be delighted to be pressed up against my retired better half. But I guess it takes the edge off when you're also pressed up against a 300lb hairy guy with no concept of personal hygiene, and a young college-type with a goatee beard and stunning black hair who is eyeing Jack with far more friendliness than is strictly necessary. I'm giving him the "You touch him and you're so fucking dead" look that I've perfected and used frequently over our years together, but the guy who looks like he's stepped straight off the set of The Paper Chase isn't fazed one little bit. Hands off, buddy, the sexy older guy with the silver hair is all mine. I still remember those self-defense moves Teal'c taught me. And if they don't do the trick, a well-aimed kick in those trendy cargo pants will. Sam taught me that.

The journey continues, uncomfortably, with us occasionally being thrown together closer still by the indifferent subway system. Personally, I like it when we're close like this, facing each other, pressed hip to hip, thigh to thigh, in an enclosed environment. It gives me the rare chance to crack an "Is that a rolled-up Guide to New York in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?" kind of joke. However, and it's a big however, I really don't think he's in the mood.

If looks could kill, I'd be dead, and 300lb guy would definitely be gasping his last.

Eventually, the ride from hell is over and we step into the busy station. I've taken us off the subway one stop early. I want to see Jack's face as we approach his cultural mecca.

It is _really_ raining now. Pouring. As we walk along the street, I pull out my umbrella and shelter him as much as I can. It's another excuse for getting up close and personal and I'm taking it. We brush arms as we walk along and I'm loving it. It's romantic, vaguely giddying. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's just the mood I'm in. We're celebrating our third anniversary with a long weekend in New York and, with any luck, we're about to enjoy (in Jack's case) endure (in mine) the centerpiece of the vacation.

A visit to the Metropolitan Opera.

Jack should be the picture of anticipation. Instead, he's bitching because the umbrella tips slightly ... the curb's fault, not mine ... and deposits a stream of freezing droplets down the back of his neck. I'm just waiting for an outburst of "Fucking rain," an endearing call back to all those times he bemoaned the appalling weather we were frequently faced with off-world. It was a popular saying of his, second only to the unforgettable "Fucking trees." Happy days.

"Sorry," I sigh, trying for the miserable puppy-dog eyes that have served me well these past 15 or so years.

It works. Go me.

"S'okay," he mumbles, shaking the collar of his raincoat. "Still say we should have taken a cab, though." Ah, the last word. He has to have it. He turns those brown eyes on me and I'm lost. I'm a heartbeat away from taking off my own coat and laying it across a puddle.

He's right, of course. He usually is. I just never let him know that I _know_ that. Another game.

The Lincoln Center draws us on until we reach the plaza outside the front of the Met. It's stunning. The rain plays off the high arched windows and Jack stops to take it all in. I can actually feel the moment his mood shifts. He's waited years for this. We made and unmade these plans so many times. He was either snowed under with work in Washington, or I was snowed in on ice planets somewhere out there. Always something. But our time is now our own, give or take the odd spell of consulting they've persuaded me to do. No last-minute hitches, no late-night calls meaning last-minute cancellations. Nothing has kept us away this time. I think I'm happy about that. I'll get back to you when we hit the third act and my ass is tingling for all the wrong reasons.

Jack is smiling. He breathes deeply and turns to look at me, and, oh hell, how can he still make me feel so good after all this time?

A stray raindrop drips off the edge of the umbrella and onto the end of my nose. Jack reaches out and brushes it away with his thumb, the rest of his hand cupping my face.

"Looks like we finally made it," he says.

"Yeah, we did."

I'm grinning like the Cheshire cat. I know I am. And I also know we're indulging in an open display of affection out here in the crowded plaza. In public. Surrounded by four thousand culture vultures. I guess it's okay now, but for a long time it wasn't and I still feel hesitant sometimes. But you know what? Screw them. I love him and I'm happy (or as happy as I can be with four and a half hours of opera ahead of me) and, more importantly, he's happy.

Jack's eyes are unbelievably soft and warm and there's a definite glint of excitement in there. He's itching to get inside. The building, I mean. Although the other could be true, too. He gets horny when he's happy. I'm just itching to get out of the rain.

"Don't want to miss that beginning," I say.

His eyes narrow and he gives me The Look and then he turns and puts a guiding hand on my arm and we head inside.

I've often wondered what those poor Revolutionary Frenchmen felt like when the tumbrils were heading for Madame Guillotine.

As Jack would say, "We are so going in."

===

Jack is speechless.

It's a rare thing. Quite a thing of beauty, actually. He lost the power of speech when I steered him away from the (relatively) cheap seats he thought I'd booked to the plush elegance of a private box.

The view is great, and I'm not referring to our vantage point vis-a-vis the stage. I'm looking at Jack, sitting next to me and radiating pleasure. He's as excited and delighted as a kid at his first major league baseball game. Perhaps I should amend that to hockey, given that it's Jack I'm talking about. His eyes flit around the opera house and are drawn back to the orchestra pit and stage, then check out our immediate surroundings for the tenth time. I smile. He's threat-assessing the shit out of the place and he doesn't even know he's doing it. Old habits die hard, I guess.

"Fuck, Daniel," he says softly, his gaze coming to rest on me. I'm hoping so, later. For now, I'm content to take in the eye candy. "I don't want to know how much this is costing, do I?" he asks.

I grin. "You can ask, but I'm not telling. Besides, this is my gift. If I want to bankrupt myself, that's my prerogative. It probably means I'll have to spend the rest of my days as someone's sex slave, though."

That produces a chuckle. I love that sound. I'm hearing it more often these days and that thrills me more than I can say. He's earned his days in the sun.

He leans towards me and says, sotto voce, "Send me your resume. I'll be conducting interviews later."

He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out his reading glasses and immerses himself in the program. I start investigating the Met Titles, a system of simultaneous translation. The words appear on individual computerized screens mounted in railings for those members of the audience who wish to utilize them, but with minimum distraction for those who don't. At least, that's what the blurb in the brochure says.

I think it's a neat idea. Not that I need it. I'm fluent in German.

Jack, who might need it, is scathing about the whole thing.

Opera is meant to be heard only in the language in which it is written, he says.

In fact, he said it rather forcibly when we were checking out the Met online at home before we left. There was swearing involved. And hand waving. His lips went all thin, too, until I kissed them back to their usual delectable shape and told him to shut the hell up and kiss me back.

Unwilling to revive the whole language debate, I ignore the new technology, sit back and prepare to revel in three acts of Jack in his element.

The house lights dim, the first strains of the overture wash over us, and I get ready to immerse myself in a live version of an opera I've only ever heard via Jack's boom box, courtesy of von Karajan and the Berlin Philharmonic.

The Met has a lot to live up to.

Parsifal, you have a go.

===

I've made it to the second interval.

To avoid the customary stampede to the bar, I've taken the liberty of arranging for our drinks to be served in our box. A small treat but I so want tonight to be special. I place the glass of Verve Clicquot on the small table in front of me and decide I _have_ to ask the question. So I say, in a voice that is remarkably reasonable, I think, "Why did Wagner have to make this so long?"

If this were a cowboy movie, there would be tumbleweed at my feet right about now and the saloon would have gone ominously quiet.

"It's opera," he says, as if that explains it all.

"But four and a half hours? Shakespeare didn't need that long to tell a story. The great symphonies don't last that long." I down another half a glass. It's making me feel better about things.

Jack leans in and, for the second time this evening, I get The Look full-on.

"It's opera," he enunciates, in case I didn't get it the first time. I did. I'm good with words. I have a way. "Besides, some of those God-awful contemporary dance pieces you love so much seem to last an eternity. But do you hear me complain?"

I sigh. "Actually, yes. Constantly."

"It's all about structure," Jack says. Knowledgeably. "Opera, that is. Pretty symmetrical _actually_ , this one."

"Really."

"Oh, yeah."

I couldn't see symmetry in opera if it walked up to me, beat me over the head with an equilateral triangle and said, "Hi, I'm a symmetrical opera."

Jack pours himself more champagne and tops up my glass. "What? You don't like the heady mix of fetishist religion, racial supremacy and sex, all set against a backdrop of tenth-century Spain?" He grins.

"Well, since you mention it, although some may see it as a work of sublime spirituality, I see it as a pretentious and repellent example of pseudo-religiosity with an underlying message of anti-semitism."

Jack chokes on his next gulp of the bubbly stuff. Then turns those all-too expressive brown babies on me again.

"Do you have to suck the fun out of everything?" He's getting exasperated. This is _good_.

"Where the fuck's the fun?" I ask. "This opera will end like just about every other. Someone will die, tragically. Can't they _write_ happy stuff? I think I'd feel better about spending five hours ten minutes on my already numb ass if I knew we were going to get an upbeat ending."

"If that's what you want you should have booked tickets for Dirty Dancing."

"That's not an opera, that's a musical. I may not know much about opera, but that much I do know." Winding Jack up is one of the joys of my life.

"The guy who plays Parsifal is pretty hot," he says, fighting a valiant rearguard action.

"True," I have to concede.

"And I kind of like the idea of the hero being a young innocent who achieves wisdom through compassion." He's eyeing me thoughtfully, smiling gently.

Damn him.

I take another drink. I'm feeling quite light-headed. This expensive stuff is good. Very good. It's making me want to be bad.

"The music's great," I offer. "Epic. Huge. Just like the costumes. I can see why you like opera so much. Really gives you a chance to embrace your inner uber-campness."

Jack's eyebrows do that enchanting dance.

"Opera, Daniel, is not camp." Snippy.

"Oh, I think you'll find it is. Overblown plots, tragedy, grand sweeping gestures."

Jack snorts, then empties the final few drops of champagne from the bottle into his glass.

"I also think it would be pretty good in English," I add, sucking up the last of my drink and placing the crystal very precisely on the table. Oh, that's a direct hit. He's fighting it. He doesn't want to bite but....

"Opera in English is, in the main, about as sensible as baseball in Italian." Having run out of alcohol, Jack starts in on the bowl of snacks. "H. L. Mencken said that."

"Oh. Must be right if the Sage of Baltimore says so," I retort.

"Come on, Daniel. You of all people understand the beauty of language. German or Italian, it has the edge where opera is concerned." He chews thoughtfully on a mini pretzel.

"We'll see," I say, as the lights dim again.

We'll see....

===

Act Three. This is a good thing. It means we're strolling towards the end.

Growing bored with the proceedings on stage, I allow myself the luxury of watching Jack. I mean, _really_ watching him. For all my teasing, I really am thrilled that he's enjoying himself so much. He's lost in the music. His eyes are closed, his head tilted back a little, a slight frown of concentration on his face. He looks like that when we make love sometimes. When Jack loses himself in something, he _really_ loses himself. It's like, when he feels the intensity, it's the _only_ thing he can feel. There isn't room for anything else.

Jack doesn't need to see what's happening on stage. For him, it's all about the music and voices. His hands are gently folding into fists and unfolding as he becomes absorbed in the rise and fall of sound.

He's transformed.

It's beautiful.

He's beautiful.

And, God, I love him.

I close my eyes and the opera fades away. I'm aware of the music somewhere on the edges of consciousness but I see only Jack. Jack on our wedding day, smiling, so content, so at peace with himself and everything around him. Jack moving above me as we loved that night, showing me with every measured stroke how he loves and wants me.

I've given my life to him for a thousand different reasons. But it all comes back to love.

Opening my eyes, I'm embarrassed to find them brimming with tears. I shouldn't be surprised. I cry easily these days. I don't know why. Perhaps it's relief, or maybe the simple wonder that we both made it this far. So often, I feared we wouldn't. Whatever the reason, Jack never calls me on it. He smiles that gentle, knowing smile, or he hugs me, then lets me be. He understands.

I sense that Jack is looking at me and raise my gaze to his. I see so much there. He reaches out and takes my hand, squeezes it, rests it on his thigh. He smiles as if he knows what I was thinking. He probably does. I've never been good hiding at anything from him. He's never let me. I quirk a half smile at him, sorry that I've taken him away from the music. He seems to read the apology in my eyes, too, and squeezes my hand again, not letting go. I'm more than happy to sit with my hand on his leg. My hand is happy to be in contact with any part of Jack's body at any time and for whatever reason. It's always been that way.

He closes his eyes again and I watch as he drifts back to the world of the opera. I can't take my eyes from his face. It's like the years are falling away; all the cares, the losses, the fears and the pain, all vanishing until there is only the music. His hand tightens on mine and it's as though he's taking me with him. He wants me on this journey. So I pay attention to the words for the first time in quite a while. And I listen. Really listen. And I translate as we go. It's a habit. I do it all the time. We can be watching TV and I'll be running through the script in French, or Italian or Russian. Sometimes, I can't _not_ do it.

And the words are beautiful. The language doesn't matter.

I lean towards him. He feels me there but he doesn't open his eyes.

I let my lips brush his ear, gently, and I speak.

"How beautiful the meadows seem today. Once I met some magic flowers, who wound their tendrils around my head; but never did I see such mild and gentle grasses, flowers and blooms, nor did they smell so sweet and fresh, nor speak to me so intimately and lovingly."

All my attention is on Jack. He strokes the back of my hand with his thumb, gently, rhythmically. He frowns a little, the lines around his eyes deepening. I nuzzle the side of his head, and let the words carry me with him.

"O alas the day of greatest pain, then should, I think, all that blossoms, that breathes, lives and lives again, only mourn, ah, and weep."

Jack swallows hard and I see a single tear escape his eye. I catch it with my tongue and gently lick the salt away, resting my head against his. I know that when he opens his eyes, we won't talk about this. I understand. Just as Jack understands me.

We stay like that, holding hands, our heads nestling together as the final act unfolds before us.

Amfortas's sin is absolved, Parsifal is the new ruler of the Knights of the Holy Grail and the sorceress, Kundry, redeemed at last, does exactly what I knew someone would do ... falls lifeless to the floor.

The end.

The crowd rises to its feet, shows its appreciation and we're up, too, thankful to stand and stretch.

Jack's grin is wide, the tears of minutes ago gone, but I won't forget them.

I'll never forget any of this.

He turns to look at me, still applauding, and I know Jack won't, either.

===

Against the odds, we managed to hail a cab for the return to the hotel. Well, it _was_ still raining. And Jack _was_ right about doing things in style.

By the time we got back, it was late and we had a light meal in the hotel bistro, which was still open. It was quiet and we talked a little about the performance. Jack was still on a high and I loved to see it.

Now, we're lying in bed, tired but happy and warm and content. It's a nice feeling. I'm starting to get used to it but I don't think I'll ever take it for granted.

I'm comfortably sprawled across Jack's chest, one leg draped over him and he's rubbing a hand lazily up and down my arm. I'm aroused in a sort of vague, don't-really-need-to-do-anything-about-it kind of way, and I'm sensing Jack is, too.

I'm on the very cusp of sleep when Jack says softly, "Thanks. For tonight."

I nuzzle into his chest. "You're welcome."

"It was great. And I know you don't like opera much. So...." He lets the sentence trail off and pulls me a closer.

I sigh. Is it a sin to feel this happy? "Like I said ... welcome."

"Pretty much the perfect day, rain notwithstanding," Jack says, turning his face to plant a kiss in my hair.

"That's good." I plant a reciprocal kiss on his chest.

"And the perfect night. Nothing could spoil this." He hitches closer still and I feel a growing erection rub against my thigh.

I smile against his skin. "That's really good to hear. Because I've booked two tickets for an experimental off-Broadway contemporary dance theatre production of Brecht's Caucasian Chalk Circle tomorrow."

And there's that tumbleweed again.

I can feel Jack's interest waning – literally – in any impending sex as well as tomorrow.

"Happy anniversary, baby," I whisper as I snuggle in.

A long-suffering sigh is the last thing I hear as sleep pulls me under.

 

end

 


End file.
